Fortuna Fatale
by Milliza
Summary: Death and Time have an argument. Well, not so much an argument as get extremely pissed at each other. And Harry is stuck right in the middle of it.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter. 'Nuff said.**

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 **Fortuna Fatale**

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Harry Potter was dead.

Again.

He sat on the bench of the White King's Cross. He wasn't alone though, but it was hard to decide if that was a good thing or not. An old man that looked disturbingly like Dumbledore was arguing with what looked like a talking dementor.

"It isn't his time yet!"

"Is this a face that cares?"

"You don't have a face!"

… and it went on. Harry thought the whole thing would be hilarious if he hadn't just died five minutes ago.

"You're not supposed to reap his soul yet!"

"He _died_ you twat."

"Because of you!"

"Because you can't keep track of your schedule!"

Harry closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. Why? Why him? Why the hell—"You're nothing but a greedy sack of bones!"

"Says the wrinkled old man with a clock shoved up his—"

"Okay!" he yelled. He did _not_ need that image stuck in his head. "Can I just… move on now or something?"

The talking dementor stepped forward eagerly, but the old man grabbed him by the back of his cloak and hauled him back.

"On no you don't!" he snapped. He turned to Harry and pointed. "And you! Dying all of a sudden. You're barely out of diapers—"

"Hey!"

"—and now you go and get yourself killed," He threw up his hands. "Again!"

"I thought it was a rather entertaining way to die," The talking dementor said casually. He looked at his hand like someone examining their nails. "Very brutal."

"Yes," the old man scowled. "And it _wasn't supposed to happen!_ _"_

They started arguing again and Harry's shoulders slumped. Why, why did this happen to him? Did dying really have to be this complicated?

"They can be a bit much, can't they?" A whimsical voice said in his ears. Harry turned in his seat and blinked.

"Luna?"

"Oh. That's you're friend isn't it? The ravenclaw one? I quite like her." The blonde next to him smiled. "I'm Fate by the way."

Harry didn't know what to think of the girl that looked like his friend. "Er. I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

"I know. I made that prophecy about you," She patted his hand consolingly. "It was quite dreadful, but Time and Death rarely agree, you know. Especially about people dying. Tom was very persistent, splitting his soul like that. It makes knowing things difficult for them."

"Uh…"

"You really weren't supposed to die." She tilted her head and blinked owlishly. "Would you like to try again?"

The arguing cut off, and Harry got the impression he wasn't the only one gaping at the blonde.

"He _died_ Fortuna." Death sounded annoyed. "I gave him full pardon once. Twice if you count the first time. I am _not_ stitching his body back together for you."

Fate hummed.

"We can just give him new parents," She decided. "Then it's okay right?"

"I don't want new parents!" Harry blurted. "I liked my old ones, and my Godfather too. I don't want a new anything!"

"Oh." She looked disappointed and Harry wanted to kick himself. He hated making girls sad, but he loved his parents and his Godfather and Remus and all his friends. He didn't want to be separated from them or forget them. Being dead was one thing, getting reincarnated was another.

The thought had no sooner been in his head when the blonde suddenly perked up.

"That is a wonderful idea Harry!" Fate said happily. "Don't worry. I'll make all the arrangements."

Harry suddenly had a weird feeling.

Death looked resigned and Time was massaging his temples like he had a headache. Fate smiled brightly at them.

"Fine." Death pointed at her. "You can have him. But if he dies again he is _staying_ dead."

"I hate rewriting things." Time grumbled.

Fate didn't seem bothered by their reluctance. She turned to Harry and brightened. "It's decided then. Lets get started."

Harry wondered if maybe he shouldn't have gotten out of bed today.

—

Nothing in the world could have prepared Harry for his new life.

Or his new mother.

The sight of Bellatrix Lestrange cooing down at him had been absolutely horrifying. Harry had never been so relieved when he got dumped with Narcissa Malfoy as his babysitter. Although he probably missed vomiting on Bellatrix a little too much.

It was surreal though, to be surrounded by relatives that didn't hate him. Narcissa made a much better aunt than Petunia Dursley, and that was why a three year old Harry sat outside the drawing room door, listening to Snape and a frantic Narcissa talk in hushed whispers.

"Lucius is loyal. The Dark Lord knows this. You have nothing to fear."

"But my family. And Draco. What of Draco?"

Harry had never liked the Malfoys in his first life. But they were his family in this one, and he recognized the fear in Narcissa's voice. The fear for her son.

Tom had to go.

Harry pursed his lips and got to his feet, walking as quietly as he could down the grand hall. Things were different this time, but maybe, just maybe, he could make them better too.

He just had to write a letter first.

—

 **So I started a new story that I shouldn't be working on but wrote anyway. Mostly just an exercise for my writing muscles because I've been on holiday too long. No idea how many chapters this will be except for a lot. Like... more than fifty. I've already mapped out twenty-ish of them and I swear I didn't plan for it to be that long BUT IT JUST HAPPENED! And I'm barely halfway through Harry's first year but maybe if I'm not OCD about everything this might actually get done?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter.**

 **Fortuna Fatale**

Harry lounged on his bed, feet swinging in the air as he lazily flipped a page in his book. He glanced at the clock.

Three… two…

Bellatrix screamed in rage, and somewhere in the house, a vase shattered.

Harry snickered.

Three days ago the Prophet had announced the triumphant defeat of You-Know-Who by Albus Dumbledore.

Three days ago Bellatrix had started throwing a tantrum that had destroyed half the house.

And for three days Harry has been secretly gloating over his own brilliance while carefully avoiding everyone in the house.

Another scream, followed by the sound exploding furniture.

Grinning, Harry went back to his book. It was dark and probably illegal, but he wasn't going to complain. Not if it could help him destroy horcruxes.

Because, honestly, he didn't fancy fighting a giant basilisk as a three year old.

Even he wasn't _that_ stupid.

Luckily Bellatrix let him read whatever he wanted. He almost had a heart attack the first time she'd caught him in the library. He had been reaching for one of the darker texts, but instead of cursing him like he thought she would, Bellatrix had beamed and started shoving semi-random dark books into his hands.

In hindsight, it really shouldn't have surprised him. Bellatrix was nuts after all.

It had gone quiet again, so Harry closed his book and jumped off the bed. The clock said it was almost lunch, so he might as well grab a treacle tart from the kitchen, and maybe find a copy of today's Prophet on Dumbledore.

Harry frowned.

His opinion of the Headmaster went back and forth a lot. The man had been firmly on the side of good, but he had plotted the death of a _child_ , and even if that child hadn't been him, the end didn't justify the means. Not to Harry.

At least that wouldn't be a problem this time. His letter to Dumbledore had obviously done the trick. Pointing out the parallels between Voldemort and Grindelwald had clearly struck a nerve. Not that he was sorry. Tom had an extra two years on his reign of terror, and Dumbledore waiting for someone else to take care of the Dark Lord problem wasn't going to save anyone.

So no. Harry didn't feel sorry for Dumbledore.

Using the dark wood of the banister railing for balance, Harry stepped off the grand staircase onto the ground floor. It was always dark inside, permanently gloomy, but he knew where to go. Harry was just about to turn to the kitchen when he heard it.

A scream. And mixed with that tortured sound was a cackling laugh. It sent a chill up his spine and he froze.

Happy. Joyous.

That… that didn't sound good.

—

The screaming came from inside the drawing room. It felt like deja vu. Harry stood outside the closed door, fists clenched. He didn't know who it was, but history was repeating itself. He just knew it.

"Dobby!"

He paced back and forth, hoping it worked. Dobby could always hear him at Malfoy Manor, but what if—

"Nice Young Master has called for Dobby?" A squeaky voice asked.

If there was one good thing about his new life, it was the barmy house elf he called a friend.

"Dobby!" he grabbed the house elf by the shoulders. They were about the same height, with Harry maybe a little taller. He looked desperately into the wide, tennis-ball-sized eyes of his old friend. "I need your help Dobby. I need to save whoever is inside that room. Can you distract Bellatrix? Make her and anyone else in the room leave?"

Dobby glanced at the room where the ear-rattling screaming came from before turning back to Harry with a determined look and back straight.

"Anything for the Nice Young Master." He nodded.

Harry slumped in relief and the house elf disappeared with a soft crack. He looked and found the shadowiest part of the hall. Crouching down, Harry held still.

A minute. Two minutes. Harry had just started yanking on his hair when an explosion rocked the house and he clapped his hands over his ears. All sound stopped; even the screams and Bellatrix's laugh.

It didn't stay that way.

The sound of running feet hit the floor and the drawing room burst open. Bellatrix ran past him, face twisted in rage. Rodolphus and Rabastan and Barty Jr. were just behind her and they disappeared down the dark hall.

Harry waited until the footfalls were gone before he quietly got up and peaked around the open door. The dark paneled walls were lit with a chandelier and sconces, and the garish furniture of the Lestrange family wealth and achievements glistened in the gold light.

Certain it was safe, Harry walked to the center of the grand room, where he could see the crumpled form of glasses and messy bird-nest black hair.

James Potter.

His father.

The carpet squished under his feet with blood, and Harry knelt, placing a shaking, gentle hand on his shoulder.

His father was alive. Alive. Not a shade. Harry could touch him. He was real, real, _real—_

Harry didn't realize he was crying until the warm, salty-water of tears fell on his father's face. He didn't even care if he's too old to cry. "Dad?" he sobbed. "Dad? Why aren't you waking up?" he didn't get an answer.

The soft pop behind him drew his attention and he saw Dobby smiling brightly, only for the house elf's ears to drop and tug on his pillow case nervously.

"Young Master?" he wrung his hands.

"Thank you for helping Dobby." Harry said instead. He turned and stared at his father. Was he his father? Could Harry even call him that anymore?

Seeing James Potter alive made him think of another dark-haired man. A man who was bold and reckless, who defied his family and lost his best friend. A man who spent twelve years in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit and escaped. A man who was forced to live on the run before he was stuck in Grimmauld for a year and died trying to save his best friend's son.

Sirius Black hadn't been perfect, but Harry had loved him. Still loved him.

Looking at James Potter, bleeding out on the carpet, lashes all over his body, Harry saw the gaunt man of his Godfather, hollow-eyed and broken.

If James Potter died…. if he was dead… it would destroy Sirius.

"Take him away Dobby," his voice was a soft whisper. He traced the face of his father. A face they no longer shared; sad and wistful. "Get him to St. Mungos. Don't let anyone see you."

The house elf nodded, and Harry thought, just as Dobby placed a hand on his arm, that James Potter's eyes might have flickered open.

But they were gone before he could find out.

—

 **An early holiday present. Hope you enjoyed it!**


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